After law school, I'll begin a career in stand up comedy. From there:
Write poems, novels, and fake memoirs under several nomes de plume such as "Sonya de Lito," "Franklin James," "I. Inoue" or "Simone"
Escape to Central America because I'm caught for a vague but serious white-collar crime. Run for a few months before settling in Cuba, where I live off of cheap pharmaceuticals and rum.
During the media frenzy that follows, I'm revealed as the sole author responsible for the renaissance of American poetics, several paradigm-shifting academic papers, a few mediocre novels, and 5 memoirs.
Among the most successful memoirs: "Liminal Beings: The Story of an Inuit Princess Living as a White Person Among Us"; "The Coal Train: The Friendship between a Meth Dealer and the Pit Pony He Saves"; "Hysterically Yours: Ten Years in a Canadian Mental Hospital"; "How to Spange: A Hitchhiker, Her Cat, and Their Tattoos."
Establish myself in Cuban politics. Within the first 8 years of my career I lift the Embargo, establish a world-renowned education system, and organize a nonprofit in the States that eventually leads to affordable, accessible abortions for all American women.
American fringe groups become outraged because of my work in reproductive rights. I am protected by an elaborate security system that surrounds my modest (but elegant) home in Cojimar. My enemies find a way to kidnap and murder my family.
I contact Yakuza headquarters in New York, DC, and Los Angeles. In exchange for a Cuban stronghold and a reasonable amount of Colombian snow, my new associates carry out revenge. First they capture the idiots who murdered my family. As a bonus, they take out a certain Alfred Sanger, a supreme court justice who has been busting my nuts for years.
At 57, I have done everything I ever wanted to do. Because of my intolerable arrogance, no one will marry me and I have no real friends. Distraught, I drown myself somewhere in Caracas but make it look like murder. A Swedish pop star is imprisoned for my "murder."
When they go to cremate my remains, they can't find them. They never do, but five years later a chunk of my embalmed brain pops up. Geneticists determine that it is mine, and neurologists reveal that it is a part of my prefrontal cortex, specifically, my Broca's area.
Cuba's National Assembly determines its fate. Within the year, my Broca's area amazes its first audience in a Havana science museum. It begins a 3 year international tour, spanning five continents and visiting Rasputin's penis in St. Petersburg.
Finally, I retire in my glass display in Havana.